


Hermitcraft and the No Good, Very Bad Month : Whumptober 2020

by qvill



Category: Hermitcraft RPF
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Griangst, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020, more characters to be added as they appear or are mentioned ! i am just Lazy, most is grian but others are featured !!!!!!, taking suggestions !!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:41:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26837617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qvill/pseuds/qvill
Summary: In which Grian and the hermits are a punching bag for all of your whump and angsty needs! Because we are predictable and simple folks.Almost all will take place in season 7, but it may delve into season 6 and AU's. Inspiration may be taken from other fics and will be credited when needed![ taking suggestions for later days ! ]
Comments: 5
Kudos: 106





	1. a decked out room [ tango ; waking up restrained ]

**Author's Note:**

> I'm catching up rn so there'll be some combined or multiple in a day ! :D

[ loosely inspired by _Dungeons and Deceit_ by @ShadeSwift99 ! ]

* * *

There’s a hum to the air, of the redstone-laced room in constant operation. Signals are threaded throughout every brick, tucked among the mortar and behind hidden carpets; if you were more attuned to redstone, then if you focus, you could hear its constant pulsations, an interwoven network of machinery and magic. 

There’s a heartbeat that reverberates in his head. 

_Ba-dump, Ba-dump. Ba-dump._

A few moments of bleary, half-consciousness pass before Tango distantly realizes that it’s not the redstone’s artificial beat, but his own, faintly pounding in his chest. The demon is not unfamiliar to the patterns of waking up whilst clutched in the grasp of unconsciousness, desperately trying to pull him back in; between being a member of Team ZIT, one of the Boomers, collecting Ravagers, and much more, the aches, pains, and slow recovery from respawns, injury, and the rest are familiar. He just has to grit his teeth, pick himself up, and go on his merry way. 

He goes to lift a hand to his face, to wipe the sleepiness from his eyes, and… he doesn’t.

Tango blinks. Once. Twice. On the third time, his vision clears enough, although the edges of his vision remain blurred. 

He’s in Decked Out. It doesn’t even take a moment for him to recognize it, catching sight of the blackstone and iron room, with a crackling flame against a wall, and lanterns dangling from expertly-crafted chains in its ‘torture room’. The back of his mind traces through the labyrinth of his own design, pinpointing his location and whereabouts he’s at, and confusion catches up to him: had he… passed out? Sure, he’s done that a few times whilst working sleepless nights on the game, but when that happens, either a Ravager sends him to his bed with a quick hit, or Zed and Impulse ping his communicator enough times to wake him up.

He goes to reach towards his pocket for his communicator, and nothing happens. 

He goes to move his arms. Nothing happens. 

His heart skips a beat, breath hitching in his throat, as he tugs on his arms fervently, only resulting in the clanking of chains, unforgiving as the metal links dig into his wrists and arms. Whipping his head around, he spies that chains formerly strung onto the walls as decoration are twisted and tied around his hands, wrists… gnarled and contorted all the way up to his elbows. Tango’s breath shudders as his heartbeat speeds up exponentially, tugging with all his might, to no avail. 

Someone sighs, and Tango freezes. 

“Bastard’s awake,” an unfamiliar voice grumbles from around a corner, and boot heels _clack_ against the blackstone flooring. Tango’s red eyes stare at the approaching shadow, before looking upward at the figure that approaches. 

Red, slitted eyes stare down at the chained demon, a wide, jagged, x-shaped scar crossing over his face. Long, disheveled hair is pulled into a ponytail, its white pigment contrasting sharply as it drapes behind his deep crimson armor. 

“Good morning,” Evil Xisuma greets with a smirk. A pointed fang, practically a snaggletooth, is beared as he grins. Tango remains frozen, although his mouth parts slightly in shock. 

“What the _fuck_ ,” Tango says, deadpan and mouth dry. “are you doing _here_ ? What am _I_ doing here?”

Ex’s grin only widens. “Well, Mr. Tango Tek, _Decked Out_ is the talk of the server! Of course we were going to take a gander, and to find you made a bonafide torture room? It was practically gift-wrapped for us!” he purrs, taking long, exaggerated steps in a semicircle, pacing in front of the wall that Tango is bound to. His breath is uneven, hitching with each new realization, and the sinking pit in his stomach only grows. 

“ _We_ ?” Tango questions, and Ex’s pacing stops. “Well, _yes_ —I suppose you haven’t met yet, have you?” he muses, and nods towards someone out of sight. The same sigh from before repeats, and there’s a clinking of armor, the clack of boots—

Tango almost mistakes it for Wels, before internally admonishing himself— there’s similarities, sure, but in the same way that Ex resembles Xisuma. The knight in shadowed armor steps forward, casting a scrutinizing gaze over Tango’s kneeling form, neck craned up to view the few figure. 

“Helsknight?” Wels and Beef had both warned about a wayward experiment that resulted in a clone running amuck, but beyond the knight’s initial confrontation, no one had seen him. 

Tango isn’t quite thrilled about witnessing the end of that hiatus. 

Hels makes a ‘ _tsk_ ’, looking down with a disinterested disdain. “Too much of a softie to be a proper demon,” he scoffs, standing alongside Ex. “But you _do_ have taste, I’ll give you that,” he adds, glancing at the room behind him. 

“What are you _doing_ here?” Tango hisses, red eyes narrowing, and Ex raises an eyebrow. Tango wishes it could be surprise, or even intimidation, but the smirk hints towards being humored more than anything else. 

“Well, as I said— you made a damn good torture room, and we thought that it could get a _bit_ more use than just as decor,” he says, sweeping an arm behind him. “And your fellow hermits will simply play your game, stumble on in— and deliver themselves to _us ._ All we had to do was get _you_ out of the way,” he grins. Tango’s eyes widen, and instinctively he tries to lunge forward, only to have his arms strain against the tightly bound chains. 

“They’ll— they’ll know that I’m gone!” he protests, and Hels rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah— they’re an overly empathetic bunch of fools,” he comments, and sifts through a pocket momentarily. Tango stares as he withdraws a scratched-up communicator, covered in soot and Tango’s own fingerprints. “They’re fucking attached, alright. I’ve had to respond so many of their messages…” he grumbles, and flicks at the screen. “ImpulseSV, Zedaph, messages asking about dungeon keys…” Hels glances up at Ex. “We’re going to have to distribute those to draw them in.”

Ex nods. 

There’s a _thrum_ to the redstone in the walls around him, and ever so faintly, there’s a _ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump._

“And on that note: _thank you_ , Mr. Tango, for all you’ve done to help us! Making intricate guides on how this game of yours operates made it delightfully easy to manipulate it behind the scenes, and we have _everything_ in this here room to keep our _own_ little game going,” Ex says, almost sounding genuinely thankful, and _that’s_ too much. Someone’s here, someone’s _on their way_ , and they _can’t_ be caught off-guard. 

He lunges forward, chains digging to him, and begins to scream. “They’ll find you! They’ll figure you out!” The chains rattle loudly around him, and his voice reverberates off of the blackstone walls. “HELP!” he yells, louder this time, and Ex glances upward, as if eyeing the noteblocks that producing the slowly growing heartbeat. 

“GET HE—” Tango’s desperate shout is cut off as the hilt of a blade _slams_ into his head, and the extreme burst of pain is almost enough to cast him into unconsciousness immediately. Alas, he’s not given that mercy, and his garbled shout twists into a pained whimper as his body jolts, and his head falls limp, dangling before his chest. Through the ringing in his skull, he can hardly hear the _shink_ as Hels’ blade is sheathed, and there’s a faint, muted grumble as footsteps begin to fade. 

“I recommend you keep _quiet_ ,” Ex hisses, and through blurred, half-open eyes, Tango can see the vague shapes of boots entering his line of sight. They retreat quickly, and he isn’t given a moment to ponder it before one shoots out, a well-placed kick on his legs sending him onto his knees with a yelp, trailing into a whine in the back of his throat as he falls. His vision blurs before he closes them, mind turning cloudy as it becomes overwhelmed by the pounding in his skull. 

Footsteps move away, and Tango’s grasp on consciousness begins to fade. 

“It’s time for the show to _begin_.” 


	2. Night Knight [ welsknight ; collars & forced to their feet ]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combining days 2 + 3 : 'Collar' and 'Forced to their feet', slightly altered from 'forced to their knees'. 
> 
> also yes im making hels into a bastard rn but he's gonna be the whumpee for some bc i . love this edgelord

Wels is a knight. 

Perhaps it had started as an aesthetic that he had stumbled into, but he saw it as an accurate reflection of himself, something that he felt  _ proud  _ to portray. Bearing the silver armor and wielding a trusted, polished blade, he built himself up to be a fair and skilled swordsman, someone that his fellow hermits could turn to for aid or simple company. He forged his spot in the community that welcomed him onto their server, and it’s an existence he’s  _ proud  _ of. 

Knights take pride in chivalry, in fair fights. In respecting which situation is suited for a battle of words or swords, in facing your foe in a true contest of character and skill. 

Hels is  _ not  _ a knight. 

“I beg to differ,” Hels says, gesturing with one hand whilst the other has a loose grip on his sword, the sharpened tip dragging on the ground. Wels stares at the sparks from the metal dragging against the blackstone floor of the cell, another bead of sweat dripping from his brow, joining a drop of blood on its way down.

“It’s in our name, is it not?” he muses, twisting on a heel as he continues his unbothered pacing. Light from a nearby soul lantern glistens off his dark metal helmet, and a blue hue is cast over the cell. 

It turns the pool of blood by Wels’ knees purple, dappled by his slouched form’s shadow. 

“And, I would describe knighthood as a  _ job,  _ not an ideology. Someone who enlists to fight for a ruler. By definition,” Hels hums. His pacing ceases and his blade scrapes against the ground as he pulls it upward, lifting up Wels’ chin with the tip. The blond gulps, tilting his head as to lessen the pressure of the heated metal pressing in. “you’re not a knight at all.” 

The blade is withdrawn, and Wels lets his head slump down, feeling as the underside of his chin comes in contact with the thick band of metal around his neck. At this point, it’s lukewarm, and he feels a moist stickiness pull at his skin as he tries to lift his head back up, for dignity’s sake. 

Hels scoffs. 

“Pathetic,” he grumbles, and Wels watches as he adjusts his grip on his sword, and begins to walk away, towards the entrance to the cell. His boot deliberately steps on the broken remains of his communicator, the metal crunching under his heel. The facsimile of a knight moves past the bars iron bars affixed onto the walls of the repurposed nether fortress, locking it behind him. Wels makes eye contact with his captor halfway through turning away. Helsknight grins. 

Welsknight stares at him dead in the eyes, unblinking and stoic. A drop of blood trickles from a cut on his forehead, falling down to his chin and dripping off. 

“You’ll break soon enough,” Hels hisses, and he reaches towards a lever on the side of the wall. Wels’ eyes widen, and he isn’t spared a moment to prepare himself as it’s flicked. The chain affixed to the collar around his neck lurches upward, forcing a cough from Wels’ chest as it forces him onto his feet, the pressure on his throat increasing as his feet scramble for purchase. Hels raises the chain higher, just over his standing height, keeping him strained to stay on his feet, but truly at no risk of actual asphyxiation, before clicking the pulley mechanism off and locking it in place. 

With his chin forced up, Wels can barely catch Hels’ twisted grin out of the corner of his vision as the clone walks away, armor clinking and boots clacking against the brick halls of the nether fortress, thousands of blocks away from the Hermitcraft mainland, and absolutely, terrifying  _ alone. _


	3. Gravity [ Grian ; collapsed building/buried alive ]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kinda combining two different suggestions for today! I might make a follow-up, a hurt/comfort thing, but I'll have to see what time I can spare!

Fondly, Grian would describe his Mansion (capital ‘M’ required) as having a little bit of insanity as one of its key components, right alongside absolutely absurd quantities of prismarine and insomnia. 

This is much to the dismay of his neighbors, with concern over the builder’s health and the phantom flocks his presence attracts, but none can bring themselves to deny the sheer effectiveness and progress that this haphazard recipe provides — the Mansion is a testament to  _ that.  _ The front facade is a meticulously detailed masterpiece, architectural feats and challenges mixed throughout, and the precision to every window, every block, every _ thing _ made it a frequently admired build for the Hermits, some casting a long glance at its exterior as they fly by, and others soaring around its prismarine chimneys and rooftops as they seek inspiration.

“And if you fly around the  _ back _ , you get a wall of concrete and a hollow hill!” 

Iskall laughs as a stone is thrown, flying past his head, and his elytra flutter as he lands on the ground, shadowed by the massive Mansion. A giant, precarious lip of the artificial plateau is being supported by rows of scaffolding, and scattered about the grounds are dozens of chests and shulker boxes. Iskall, humored, surveys the absolute mess of a storage system, and has to shove aside piles of gravel to find places to set a line of color-coded shulker boxes down. Grass, gravel, smooth stone, granite, all neatly labelled and a stark contrast against the sporadic placement of chests that he has to step over. 

Iskall sets the last one down, and turns to look at Grian. The builder is currently covered in dirt and dust, wielding a shovel as he swoops about the half-finished hill, placing lines of naturalistic blocks as progress creeps on. Iskall empathized, knowing that the last, necessary steps were the most grueling (his thoughts jumped to the scarcely-leaved branches of his OMEGA Tree), and  _ sure _ , he’d help out one of his close friends when they needed a hand getting materials, but that doesn’t mean he can’t tease him a bit. 

But, Iskall considers, watching at the short man yelps and scuttles back as a patch of gravel suddenly falls as he removes a line of scaffolding, maybe he’d spare him just this once. 

“How’s it coming along, neighbor?” he calls out, and Grian’s head whips around, the adrenaline and confusion on his face from the near-miss shifting into a smile as he catches sight of Iskall. His elytra flicks up, and with a quick rocket, he zips over to the neat array of chests, stumbling to a halt. Iskall can see the exhaustion through the builder’s body, how his limbs and posture sink the moment he lands, but the determined enthusiasm stuck to his face convinces him otherwise, and he doesn’t comment. 

“Good! I’ve gotta start lighting up the inside of the hill, then add supports so I can convert it into a usable space later, and  _ then  _ I can finish the outside of the hill—” Grian says quickly, panting. “But this helps a lot! Thanks!” 

Iskall’s gaze wanders to where Grian had been gesturing, and he catches sight of some of the supports Grian had mentioned. Indeed, there are arrangements of slabs and fences that support the weight of the stone, grass, and some wayward gravel, with glowstone interspersed between them, and torches by their bases. It has the same precision that keeps Grian’s builds inspiring and stylistic, even for something as simple as necessary matters. Iskall hums, thinking about his own storage system, and he turns to Grian. 

“I have a  _ ton  _ of extra wood that I’m not using, since I’ve finished the majority of the trunk, so can bring you a bunch for the supports,” he offers, and Grian’s eyes light up. “That’d be great! If you’re sure, that is,” he adds, and Iskall quickly nods, flapping his elytra open. “I’ll try to be back in the next couple hours, then! Stay safe!” he says, and with a flap of wings and the firing of a rocket, Grian watches as his fellow jungle-dweller’s form zips into the sky, and off towards his towering tree. 

The builder smiles, gaze lingering upwards, before he dusts off his red jumper, flicks open a shulker box of stone, and gets back to terraforming. 

\---

It’s calming and monotonous. It’s how he thinks he’s been able to build so much, so detailed, for so long: there’s a calming pattern to filling out a pre-planned design, as if everything has already been implemented, and he’s just a robot that has a job to do. 

It gives him time to think, or, to not think at all. Grian finds his focus wandering from the task at hand, whilst he still stands on the ground below the plateau, placing rings upon rings of stone, dirt, and gravel. He wouldn’t quite describe it as dissociation, but mayhaps, a meditation: time passes, and he’s aware of it, but he’s not truly thinking.

It’s kinda therapeutic, and definitely not a proper alternative to regular sleeping, but it’ll do!

And, of course, it’s in this state of being at ease that it happens.

He’s just reached the end of one row, this one closest to the natural mountainside, and he absentmindedly flicks between blocks. Stone, stone, stone, granite, a line of grass… all the way up to the end. This makes the blocks just over his height and he hums, satisfied, flicking to his torches and simultaneously popping on onto the wall, whilst he reaches over and breaks the bottommost scaffolding of a stack. 

The stacked scaffolding collapse, turning into their pocket-sized equivalents as they fall to the ground around him, and he begins to pick them up, shuffling them into the inventory. The topmost one falls, and Grian blinks as a trickle of dust falls from the ceiling, then a couple pebbles… 

And an avalanche of gravel falls onto him. 

The sudden weight of stone and dust and dirt sends him toppling to the ground with a gasp, pushing the air from his chest as he falls onto his stomach, and he throws his arms over his head with hardly a moment to spare as more powdery blocks topple on top of him. 

He only tries to breathe again when weight stops accumulating over his back, and the sound of crumbling stones and gravel shifting comes to a stop. 

His chest hardly expands, and coughs wrack his pinned form as dust flows in with what little breaths he takes. Flint digs into his back, cutting through his jumper and shredding his elytra with with every twitch. 

Grian’s heart pounds in his chest as he forces himself to calm down, brushing away remnants of gravel to clear a space around his head. Through squinted eyes, he can see a different gray powder amongst the gravel— concrete? A sinking realization settles in the pit of his stomach as he realizes that he must have neglected a decent sized pocket when building the mansion, and one support disappearing meant the entire deposit and then some came tumbling down. 

He tries to keep his breathes small and shallow, but he can’t help the whimper drawn from the back of his throat with every inhale shifting the weighted mass above him, adding pressure onto his ribs. His legs are already turning numb, and even with his hands free, he can’t quite  _ do  _ anything, lest he send the pile tumbling over his head. 

And suffocating isn’t on the agenda today, no sirree. 

But, Grian realizes, his  _ communicator  _ is in his pocket, and even if it’s not broken… he can’t get it. He can’t call for help. 

His breath shudders, and tears prick the corner of his eyes. Iskall  _ said  _ he’d be back in a couple hours, right? 

But Iskall also tends to let Grian work on his own, and the Swede could just… set down a shulker and leave without knowing.

His breath stutters again, and pebbles trickle down, tumbling by where he lays his arms forward, letting them fall limp as he sets the side of his head against the ground, letting the dust-filled air dry the panicked tears that form, as he silently, desperately waits for his chance to be freed to arrive. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I will read literally every comment and treasure them!
> 
> also if you have any ideas, do tell! you can be specific and list an idea with an official prompt (available here : https://whumptober2020.tumblr.com/about ) or be vague and I'll find where it fits!


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